Patchwork.

sunday.
I define my poetry as
an alphabet soup of
mediocre one-liners
gone cold.

monday.
My words brace to splatter
against the microwave walls
of some unfortunate skull.

tuesday.
My lips are chapping,
confessing yours
to some disembodied thing
that coaxes them calmly.

wednesday.
My stomach releases
the butterflies that occupied it
in the days we occupied each other.

thursday.
My name is
the softest word
in a sentence
I wasn’t meant to hear.

friday.
My eyes open
because today is a part
of my
cosmic blip.

saturday.
I define my poetry
as the leech
that bleeds me.